


Untitled

by kinneas



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Music RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneas/pseuds/kinneas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He knew who he was, of course--even without demonic knowledge, the kid had been making a bit of a splash beyond just the gates and memos of Hell. Quite the irony in his name.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a drabble originally written for the [teamcockbert](http://teamcockbert.livejournal.com) drabble meme, lolll. I wanted somewhere to post it. Sort of dual-interpretation, really abstract bullshit. Beta thanks to [cynnet](http://cynnet.livejournal.com) and [glamchemy](http://glamchemy.livejournal.com). Dedicated to [ontd_blllolllu](http://ontd_blllolllu.livejournal.com), may y'all live on. Completed 5/10.

He knew who he was, of course--even without demonic knowledge, the kid had been making a bit of a splash beyond just the gates and memos of Hell. Quite the irony in his name.

And here he walked, as if he owned Charing Cross and the world, and with enough thought maybe he could. He had black hair and good cheekbones and wore dark glasses and snakeskin boots.

He had the Devil in him--or at least he would soon. Crowley couldn't make them do anything they didn't really, really _want_ to do.

The kid hadn't lied when he'd said he could live here in London, all curved streets and the kind of nifty old architecture L.A. didn't want to think about, clubs with better energy and endless possibilities, boys in vintage black cars and perfectly-tailored suits and million-dollar sunglasses.

(Please allow me to introduce myself; I'm a man of wealth and taste.)

Adam wanted to say, "I don't get in cars with strangers," but it didn't quite make it past his teeth, it couldn't. His legs, however, had much less trouble gliding past the long hood of the car and into its leather interior.

"Hello," Crowley said almost cordially, watching this Adam shift uncomfortably.

"Who are you?" Adam asked. Crowley grinned to match those boots, and Adam didn't need to know anymore.

Had his stomach ever lurched, he might have sympathized with Adam.

"You know I'm Jewish," he said.

"It doesn't matter."

And then there it was, that moment Crowley had been waiting for. Adam straightened and pulled off his sunglasses, eyes bright and shining, and Crowley imagined if he spoke again that quavering voice would be like it never even existed. Free will wasn't such a bitch when they willed your way.

"Okay," he said, leaning close, looking hungry, arms folded but unmistakably excited. This was the man Crowley recognized. "Why not?"

That's the spirit.

And then, just like that, within what should have been an hour but felt like moments, Adam was climbing from the car with merely the barest hint of trepidation. The air sizzled. Crowley followed, and Adam eyed him with breathlessness and the scrutiny of someone in well over his head. Angels were sexless, Crowley not so much.

Only in the dark of his flat did Crowley finally tug the glasses from his eyes.

"I'll be damned," Adam said.

"Probably," Crowley said.

Really, though, for all his posturing he was a good kid. Crowley felt it in sex, when Adam bent him back over the cushions of his never-used sofa, rolling his hips languorously over Crowley's lap with the intent to give as much as he got, when Adam took _so well_ to suggestion and let himself be fucked sideways in the name of reciprocity, when his breath hitched and he gasped, "Oh, god!" and Crowley winced.

Later, with smudged eyeliner and rumpled clothes and no hint of shame, Adam would leave. He could forget if he wanted, but he would not. And in a decade, whatever form of media humanity saw fit to outfit their cars would metamorphose into something wholly different.

It was only fitting.

Sartre had written it: "Hell is other people." This wasn't quite what he was getting at, but it would do.

* * *


End file.
